The Secret of Fatima

by Tanous, Peter J;

  A loud rapping at the door dashed his thoughts.

  With the searing memory of the last time he’d opened this door, Kevin moved cautiously, picking up one of the pistols from his bedside table, and moving toward the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Kevin, it’s Max.

  Kevin opened the door a crack. There stood Monsignor Drotti, dressed in his clerical garb. He was looking disgruntled.

  Drotti spoke quickly, gesturing nervously with his hands. “Look, I know you don’t want to see me, but I need to talk to you.”

  Kevin nodded, gesturing toward the living room. He walked over and laid the pistol down on the table.

  “I know you’re upset with me, Kevin. But I couldn’t tell you everything. I had my orders, too.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Kevin said, as they sat down in the only two armchairs in the apartment.

  “The test of your abilities was important, Kevin, because the next assignment—the one you’re on now—is really, really serious.”

  “More serious than a nuclear war?” Kevin asked.

  “Yes,” Drotti said. “At the moment, I don’t know much more. I came to see you because I knew you were upset with me. Please accept my apology. I’ll understand if you’d prefer not to work with me.”

  “It’s about trust, Max, it’s—”

  Buzzzzzzzz. Kevin glanced at his ringing cell, perplexed. He didn’t recognize the number.

  “Excuse me, Max,” he said.

  “Father Thrall?” the tentative voice asked in a thick accent. “This is Ali Recip. I remembered your number.”

  Kevin smiled. “Ali, small world. Yesterday your father saved my life.”

  “Well, my father is dead, sir. That must have been just before they killed him.”

  Kevin’s jaw dropped and his stomach was churning. That must have been because of me.

  “I’m so sorry, Ali. Oh my God!” Kevin cried out. He was horrified. He was responsible for the man’s death.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m calling you because he wanted me to tell you something in the event of … in case he was no longer here.”

  “Sure … please continue.” Kevin looked over at Max, who was frowning with worry.

  “My father said to tell you Operation Delorgio will happen today at noon.”

  “Operation Delorgio? What does that mean, Ali?” Kevin asked.

  “I do not know, sir.… I … I … must go now.” The phone went dead.

  Kevin looked at Max, shaking his head.

  “What is it?” Max asked.

  Kevin explained what had happened to him yesterday and what Ali had just told him.

  “I … I … feel so guilty. It’s my fault the kid’s father was killed. Now, he’s given me a secret message about Operation Delorgio. What does it mean?”

  “Operation Delorgio is a code name for an Opus Mundi event, but we don’t know exactly what it might be,” said Max.

  “Ali said ‘noon today.’”

  Max looked as though he’d been struck by lightning. “My God!”

  “What?”

  “Today is Sunday. The pontiff will be giving his blessing from the window above St. Peter’s Square. At noon exactly. He addresses the crowds every Sunday!”

  Kevin checked his watch. “Oh my God! That’s a half hour from now. Call Vatican security!”

  Monsignor Drotti shrugged. “Certainly. But to do what? Protect the pope from half a million Catholics in the Square? No way His Holiness will skip his Sunday blessing.”

  Kevin went into the bedroom and withdrew the other pistol. “If they’re going to take a shot at him, it won’t be from the Square up at the window,” he said. “The pope speaks from his window on the top floor of the Apostolic Palace. They’ll need an expert marksman with a powerful rifle. That wouldn’t happen if the assassin is on the ground, in the crowd.”

  Max looked at the pistols Kevin was cradling. “What are you saying?”

  “The assassin has to have a better vantage point.” Kevin was pointing at a large framed photo of St. Peter’s on the bedroom wall. The color aerial shot showed St. Peter’s with the semi-circle of Bernini columns framing the square, in front of the Basilica. To the right of the colonnade stood the Apostolic Palace.

  “There,” Kevin said, pointing at the photo. He pointed to the top of the semi-circle of columns, fingering a spot closest to the window of the Apostolic Palace. This is where the pope addresses the crowd. “It’s the best vantage point for an assassin.”

  Drotti studied the picture. “They’d have great difficulty accessing that building,” he said, pointing to the same spot. “The Vatican police know the top of the colonnade would be an assassin’s best vantage point.”

  Tapping his finger on the photograph, Kevin reflected for a moment. “They’re right. That spot would be the easiest shot for a good marksman.”

  “And that’s why you can’t get up there,” Drotti added.

  Kevin looked again at the picture of the Square and the columns. “Wait,” he said, pointing at the other side of the semi-circle of columns. He tapped on the image at the top of the semi-circle, this time at the roof of the colonnade farthest from the Apostolic Palace, on the other side of the esplanade.

  “What?” Drotti asked.

  Kevin was still tapping. “I figure about eight hundred yards. An expert sniper with the right equipment could make a shot from here. It wouldn’t be easy, but it’s feasible. How secure is that side of the colonnade?”

  Drotti shrugged. “It’s indisputably a controlled access, but not as closely watched as the other side.”

  “Could someone sneak up there at night?”

  “Well, I guess so …”

  Kevin pocketed the guns. “Let’s get going, Max.”

  Drotti swallowed hard. “Kevin, we’re just speculating … we don’t know anything will happen!”

  “Would you rather sit here watching television?”

  Max shook his head and stood up.

  “C’mon,” said Kevin.

  Both men raced from the apartment, Kevin dressed in the jeans and polo shirt he’d put on after returning from his kidnapping, Drotti in his black clerical garb. In calculation of a measured run to the center of the Square, they estimated about six minutes. But they couldn’t factor into their calculation the variable of the crowds. How much would the crowds slow them down?

  Exiting the Vatican gate to the left of St. Peter’s, throngs of people were gathered, awaiting the pontiff’s blessing. The sun shone brightly, illuminating the Square, creating a kaleidoscopic blur of colors and shapes against the crowd. Thousands upon thousands of pilgrims and tourists were milling about, some singing, others clicking photos with cell phones and cameras. The constant hum of anticipation was ominous. It hung over the Square.

  “This way,” Drotti directed. The two fought their way through the dense crowd, peering upward occasionally at the window where the pope was due to appear.

  “Scusi, scusi,” the men shouted as they muscled their way through the throngs. Drotti led the way, aiming for the guard station at the foot of the far columns. A wood shack, just big enough for one guard, protected the entrance to a stairway that led to the roof of the colonnade. The roof connected the Bernini columns at the top, completing the semi-circle of the colonnade. Amidst bursts of laughter, chatter, and songs, the din of the crowd grew louder. A gentle breeze elevated everyone’s mood.

  The pope’s window was open, the microphone in place, and the red papal banner, which had just been unfurled beneath the open window, was slapping against the side of the building. The crowd roared, knowing this red banner signaled that the pontiff would soon appear.

  Kevin and Drotti clawed their way to the sealed and guarded stairway under the colonnade. Drotti addressed the guard who was checking his credentials.

  Drotti explained as calmly as he could what was happening. Kevin saw the guard’s eyes widen in alarm. Kevin breathed heavily, impatient with small talk. His mind was roaming
back to Iraq, which was the last time he felt this kind of pressure in his chest. Adrenaline was pumping throughout his body. What was this elation he was feeling? Was it fervor over the prospect of meeting death? Or, was it because he was rabidly determined to win this battle?

  Impatient, Kevin brushed the guard aside and rushed to the top of the stairs. Drotti followed. The guard hollered into the intercom, summoning help. Kevin checked his watch: three minutes to twelve.

  On top of the colonnade was a slanted roof, forcing the men to go along the bottom edge by the railing. From this vantage point, the crowd below had morphed into a cluster of milling insects.

  Locating the papal quarters where the pontiff would appear, Kevin stopped to orient himself. The window was open, the banner beneath it. Mentally, Kevin measured the distance from the papal window to the columns, calculating he was roughly 800 yards from the optimum spot from this side of the colonnade to shoot.

  Over on the other side, Kevin now saw security guards on top of the columns, fully armed, ready to ensure the pope’s safety. Kevin recalled the many hours he’d spent in Iraq talking shop with some of the expert sharpshooters in his battalion about similar situations. He had no idea then that some of that banter would one day become so important. Perhaps God had prepared him for this moment. But no time to think about God now.

  He motioned for Max to crouch down and follow him along the railing. They had to go slowly; every few feet, statues of saints stood in their way.

  Kevin pointed to the far extension of the columns. “Over there is a shooter’s best vantage point.” He reached into his pocket and handed one of the pistols to Max. “You want to be my partner? Take this.” Before giving it to him, Kevin cocked the pistol and chambered a round. “It’s like a Kodak Instamatic: Just point and shoot.”

  Max took the pistol, making sure to keep his finger away from the trigger. He was nervous, having never held a gun in his hand before.

  Crouching all the way down, the men made their way around the curve of the colonnade. The tin roof crunched, making metallic clatter with every step, but the din of the crowd drowned it out.

  Suddenly, as trumpets blared, the all-white figure of Pope Quintus II appeared in the window, hands extended. His figure was visible only from the waist up. The roar of the crowd was deafening.

  Kevin motioned for Drotti to stop. They got down on their hands and knees and crawled around the roof of the colonnade, searching for the shooter.

  Nothing.

  Crawling a bit farther for a better view, Kevin motioned for Drotti to follow. They crawled ten yards ahead and looked up.

  Nothing.

  They repeated the maneuver. Their crawling became more rapid and proficient. They looked up again.

  Nothing.

  Had he overreacted? Had he miscalculated? Nervously, Kevin focused on what he’d concluded was the optimal spot to take a shot, the closest point to the window from the far side of the columns. Straightening up, his head was poking again above the steep roof of the colonnade.

  Then the target came into full sight.

  Further ahead on the roof, the figure was sleek and elongated, clothed in a muddy jumpsuit camouflaged to match the brown color of the plaster, with a ski mask of the same color to cover his face. He was hard to spot just a few yards away, more difficult from above. This guy was a pro. Beside the sharpshooter lay a long cloth case where his rifle was stored.

  His Holiness began with a papal blessing. The crowd quieted.

  Deliberately, the assassin unzipped the case by his side and took out a sleek rifle with a telescope. The rifle rested on a small tripod attached to the barrel. He crouched into position.

  His finger to his lips, Kevin signaled Max to follow him up the slanted roof. The shooter’s attention was entirely on the Apostolic Palace. He checked the rifle sights, clicked a knob, and then positioned himself, looking into the telescope sight.

  The time had come. More than 700 yards away, the pope’s voice was loud and clear echoing over loudspeakers in the Square below, invoking the words of Jesus.

  Kevin now had two options and he had to pick one fast. He could try a shot at the assassin from here, but with only a pistol, he might miss. Even if he hit the target, the man might still get a shot off with his rifle. The other option was to get closer for a better shot, and in the process create a distraction to keep the shooter from firing at the papal window. Only this option meant Kevin was substituting himself as the target. Or at least, the shooter’s first one.

  Kevin’s decision came swiftly and his movements turned automatic. Conjuring skills learned years ago, he jumped on the roof, careening down the other side toward the shooter. In a split second, the shooter saw Kevin, sprang up and whipped his rifle around, pointing the barrel straight at Kevin.

  Like a cheetah, Kevin dove to the ground and slid down the roof toward the assassin. Behind him, Max’s clumsy footsteps were lacking subtlety, inviting disaster. “Down, Max!” Kevin shouted while aiming his pistol at the assassin. In this game, whoever fires first, fires last.

  The assassin got off the first shot. But in this one, things were playing out differently. His aim was off. He missed. The bullet whizzed over Kevin’s head, close enough to make his hair stand on end.

  Kevin pointed his gun and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. The pistol jammed. He banged it on the tiles, as the sharpshooter positioned for another round.

  Another shot rang out, but this time it wasn’t from the assassin. It was from Drotti. Thank God for Drotti!

  Drotti jumped down next to Kevin on the tiles, shaking, gun in hand, ready to take another shot.

  “Give it to me, Max,” Kevin said.

  “Gladly,” said Drotti.

  The assassin was wounded, but still standing. He readied his rifle again, aiming it at Kevin and Max, but was now moving too slowly. Kevin rose. Holding his pistol straight in front of him, he shot the assassin in the chest.

  Kevin remained standing, anticipating the man’s collapse, but he didn’t. Instead, the shooter grimaced. Kevin realized he must be wearing a Kevlar bulletproof vest. A wicked smile plastered across his face, the guy was aiming the rifle at Kevin, but his smile was fading. Mustering his wartime sang froid, Kevin held the pistol steady with both hands and shot first, emptying his cartridge into the assassin’s skull. The assassin’s eyes grew wide, then closed as he collapsed into a heap on the roof, blood oozing out of both sides of his head. A dozen security men with guns rushed to the scene, pounding the tin roof toward Kevin and Drotti.

  “Monsignor, what happened here?” asked a security guard.

  By the way he took control, Drotti assumed the guard was the leader of the security team. Drotti signaled to the leader, “All under control!” Drotti explained that they’d gotten a heads up on a possible assassination attempt against his Holiness. He motioned toward Kevin, explaining that he was a special U.S. Emissary to the Vatican.

  The security guard looked at Kevin, nodded, and matter-of-factly asked where the clerics had happened upon the guns.

  Puffing up his chest further, Drotti said, “Inspector sir, this matter must remain top secret. Am I making myself quite clear?”

  The man nodded, saying, “As you wish, monsignor. I’ll handle this thing appropriately. We’ll remove the body discreetly.”

  “Good,” Drotti said. “Further instructions will follow from the Vatican.”

  After additional cautious words from Drotti, the security men headed toward the assassin’s body.

  “Thanks, partner,” Kevin said.

  “No problem,” said Drotti.

  Drotti had some balls, after all, thought Kevin. Sometimes he comes across like a donkey, but under pressure, he looked like a Triple Crown race horse.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rome, Italy

  Exhausted, Kevin and Drotti pushed through the crowds, heading back to Kevin’s apartment. As they collapsed in armchairs, Drotti was wailing, “I’m having a heart attack.”

&n
bsp; “How do you know?” asked Kevin.

  “Throbbing in my chest.”

  “I can fix that, Max,” said Kevin. He got up, went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of Scotch. He handed one to Drotti. “This is what the doctor ordered.”

  Drotti took the glass, downed a swig. “I never imagined I’d do such a thing.”

  “What? Drink Scotch?”

  “No, shoot a man.”

  “Well, you only wounded him. I was the one who killed him. I did what I had to do and my conscience will deal. I’ve been there before.”

  “Want to talk about it?” Drotti asked.

  “I don’t want you as my confessor, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant talking helps …”

  “My faith is deep, Max. It’s the one thing I’m certain about. But there’s this other side to me that’s harder to quantify. I believe in justice and—”

  “Was it justice, Kevin,” interrupted Drotti, “or revenge?”

  The comment stung. Kevin didn’t like to admit some things about himself.

  “To be honest, I’ve been told I have an anger problem, Max. And maybe it’s true. When I was stationed in Iraq, I killed a man. I was put on trial for it.”

  Drotti nodded, looking away.

  “I deserved to be tried,” Kevin continued, avoiding eye contact. “Not only did I kill him, but also I made sure that he suffered while dying … and …”

  Drotti’s mouth was wide open.

  “Look, Max, this is hard to talk about,” said Kevin, noticing the stunned expression on Drotti’s face. Waiting for Drotti to respond, Kevin took a big gulp of Scotch.

  “I know it’s important to let it out,” Drotti finally said. “Did you confess this sin, Kevin?”

  “Sure … yes.” Kevin nodded. “Cardinal Porter, who was then a bishop, absolved me. But, you know what? If I had to do it over again, it wouldn’t be different. I’d do it all over. That man deserved what he got.”